Now and At the Hour
by Lily Ann
Summary: Buffy and Spike find each other again, post-Chosen.
1. Turn

Now and At the Hour

by Lily Ann

Contact: saywardluckett2000@yahoo.com

  


Summary: Post-Chosen, Buffy and Spike find each other again. 

  


Notes: Okay, this is gonna be an orgy of hurt/comfort so if that's not your thing...also potty mouth and a strong R for sexual stuff, eventually.

  
  
  


_I would live in your love_

_ as the sea grasses live in the sea,_

_Borne up by each wave as it passes_

_ drawn down by each wave that recedes._

_I would empty my soul of the dreams _

_ that have gathered in me,_

_I would beat with your heart as it beats_

_ I would follow your soul as it leads—Sara Teasdale_

  
  


_I am beyond your peripheral vision_

_so you might want to turn your head–Ani DiFranco_

  
  
  
  


Chapter 1: Turn__

  
  


Buffy was buying a tub of frozen yogurt on the morning she got her life back.

  


Just going through the checkout line at an ordinary 7-11, in the heart of Los Angeles, sliding a shivering lump of Neopolitan–Buffy liked Vanilla, Dawn was a strawberry girl. It was all about the compromise--toward some chatty cashier with a crooked name-tag ("Millie, Five Years of Service! I Can Help!") and a story to tell.

  


"...so the freak wants smokes, but, I'm telling you, Heidi, I was sure he didn't have had a single honest penny on him..." 

  


Digging in her jeans pocket for cash, Buffy was only half-listening to the orange-haired Millie's cigarette saga, but Heidi, the bagger, was clearly fascinated. Leaning on her elbows, the teenager smacked her wad of grape gum and nodded sympathetically. "Another bum looking for a handout?"

  


"That's what I thought! The guy was _dirty_!" Millie's long, blue fingernails left furrows in the frost coating the carton when she tapped it for emphasis. "Like he was living in the dump. Or an alley."

  


"Ooh! He probably had bugs!" Heidi squealed and Millie laughed. Both women ignored Buffy.

"Umm...plastic's fine," she finally piped up, glancing pointedly at her purchase.

  


"Uhh-huh." Millie reached for Buffy's money, but aimed the rest of her words at Heidi, who was boredly stuffing the yogurt into a bag. "Then he pulls out this honkin' wad o' cash! We're talking some serious green here, girl!"

  


"No WAY!" Heidi's glossy little mouth dropped open.

  


"Way." Millie laughed. "So I says, 'Mister, put that away. Aren't you afraid o' muggers? People are murdered for that kind of dough!"

  


"Ah...could I get my change?" Buffy stared, with great meaning, at her watch, even though it was Saturday and Angel didn't need her until the first of the week. And maybe not even then. It had been a slow month. The helpless seemed to be helping themselves, for once. Or dying quietly, under the radar.

  


"Sure thing, sweetie." Millie favored Buffy with a smile, but returned, irresistibly, to her story. "And this fellow, he looks right at me with the bluest eyes I ever did see, even under all that grime, and says the strangest thing--"

  


"You owe me $1.40," Buffy interrupted and received a dirty look from Heidi.

  


Rolling her eyes, Buffy scanned a tabloid and waited for the gossip to run its course so she could get her change and go home, where television and take-out Chinese awaited her. A quiet–_lonely–_afternoon with Faith at Robin Wood's and Dawn spending more and more time with her new school friends. There'd be a short call to England, maybe, for Willow's chatter, which she missed. There might be a few hours of sleep, after that, without dreams of Sunnydale, if she was lucky.

  


"'Should I never return, love, all is in order.'"

  


"What?" Buffy's head jerked around like a marionette's, pulled to attention by shock. Her narrowed gaze landed on the orange-haired Millie, suddenly as bright and focused as a searchlight. She had to remind herself to breathe. And though it was late fall, the tail end of the dying season, her clothes suddenly felt clammy, like the memory of cold, pale skin, gone many months ago.

  


Lost in a moment of supreme sacrifice.

  


Millie huffed impatiently. "That's what he said. Just like that. And that _voice, _oh my stars and garters..."

  


There was a buzzing in Buffy's head, like a thousand bees harvesting sweet memory of a time and a man gone forever. Gone from her, to dust and ash and whatever afterlife awaited him, bitter or joyous. It wasn't for Buffy to know. Oh, but she wondered, though. Wondered all the time. What became of his essence, his pilgrim soul? 

  


_Spike._

  


Her beautiful, punk boy. The most dark and loving creature she'd ever known. And the lover she'd wronged the most. Yes, lover. She could finally admit what he was to her, for all those dark months, give him a place of honor in her life and memories. It filled her up unexpectedly at times, the paradoxical grace of having been Spike's lover, dropping slow when she heard the rough laughter of a man or cupped her hand around a guttering candle flame. 

  


He burned brighter than the fire, and even his memory is intense enough to take her breath away. 

  


And that one word–_love–_inserted into a sentence so casually by a stranger...

  


_Stupid. _It was stupid to suddenly hope. Spike was dead–_deader–_than he'd been in his London grave, more than a century ago and a continent away.

  


Burned and scattered to the earth that bore him. Resting in the crater of that secretive old town, with the bones of Anya and Amanda and Jonathon. Her mom, and Tara, too. And all all the little girls that fell in that last, desperate effort to hold back the darkness.

  


All dead. And Buffy remained.

  


Suddenly aware of how she looked, standing frozen in the aisle of the 7-11, clutching her package for dear life, Buffy looked up. Her reflection shimmered in an overhead mirror, and she really _looked _at herselffor the first time in weeks. What she saw was a too-thin girl with dark roots in her golden hair, an aged woman at twenty-two. What was most appalling, though, was her sad, sad eyes. Spike used to make them blaze with passion and anger and a thousand other emotions he brought out in her from moment to moment.

  


_"Look Beautiful, you do, all sails to the wind and full of starch."_

  


Whatever that meant. He was a master at words, her Spike, but too cavalier to ever be a good poet. He butchered the language and made his own, a passionate vocabulary of all he'd seen and done and been. Of people he loved, and hated, killed or forgave.

  


Buffy couldn't bear it another minute, this remembering. But when she closed her eyes, he was there, too. Defiant in the First's den of horrors...loved by moonlight before a forbidden altar...sleeping peacefully in her arms, a tangled contradiction of dark and bright. 

  


"Sorry," she stammered at a confused Millie. "I...I have to go. Keep the change."

  


But, as she reached the swinging door that would take her back to her life alone, Buffy hesitated, mind ticking over the coincidences. _Blue eyes...crazy talk...cigarettes. A voice like honey._ _It can't be. I'll just go now..._

  


"What was he wearing?" Buffy didn't turn around, just waited for Millie to answer. In her mind's eye, she pictured the cashier biting her lip in thought. 

  


She was bracing herself, and barely aware of it, but Buffy still wasn't ready for the answer when it came.

  


"Old leather coat. Looked like it had been through Pearl Harbor, plus the Mexican war." This earned a snicker from Heidi.

  


_No, just a couple apocalypse, many beatings, countless brawls, then the great grandmother of all cave-ins and possible death. _Buffy's heart leapt in her chest. One hand, of its own free will, reached out and caught the edge of a shopping cart as her knees buckled. 

  


"Hey, are you okay?"

  


"Fine...fine," Buffy managed. She straightened and carefully turned around. Very faintly, she heard her own voice asking, "Can you...describe his face?" 

  


_His beloved face, curving beautifully under her lips, her palm. Weeping in life, warmly golden in death. Earnest as he tells her she's the One._

  


Millie frowned. "Like I said, honey, he was dirty, like street-folk get. But good bones, overall. Unusual. Thin." Millie looked thoughtful. "And there was something else..."

  


"What?" Buffy asked faintly.

  


"A scar." Millie gestured to her perfectly plucked brows, and laid a finger there. "Here." One manicured nail traced an invisible x and Buffy felt the motion like a slash across her heart.

  


The frozen yogurt hit the floor with a smack.

  


She knew. She just knew.

  
  
  


TBC

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


"On the last day, he'll be judged, like the rest of us, by the one, merciful God."

  


"He entered this faith a hundred and fifty-years ago, through the rite of baptism."

  


"Even the faithful still strive to conquer sin."

  


"I know that the cleansing fire of purgatory visited your Spike here on earth." Father---- squeezed her fingers comfortingly . "And he departed this world in God's grace, if only for a moment."


	2. A Time for Us

Title: Now and At the Hour

Author: Lily Ann

Contact: saywardluckett@yahoo.com. Feedback feeds the plot bunnies.

Summary: Post-Chosen, Buffy and Spike find each other again. 

  
  
  


Chapter 2: A Time for Us

  
  


When Spike died, she went to the ocean. 

  


Left the milling chaos of the Hyperion and drove along the coast until Angel's car finally ran out of gas. Stood on a fat, stern boulder, high above the boiling waves, under a tapestry of wild indigo almost as brilliant as her lost boy's eyes. There, she released her sorrow into the wind. Wept and screamed and wasn't at all strong like Spike said she was. Like she had to be in that cavern, losing him to sunlight and falling timber. She was there for hours, beating her fists against the earth and cursing fate, might even have prayed a little–she wasn't sure she remembered how anymore. Gave language and voice to her grief, high on that rocky outcropping, but still couldn't bring herself to regret the loss of his ashes. Because it would have been so very final, casting Spike to the sea. And he'd never expressed a particular fondness for the ocean in their conversations. It was too solitary a resting place for the vampire who was drawn, irresistibly, to cities and crowds, to noisy humanity, for amusement and asylum and sustenance. Despite how effectively he played the lone wolf, Spike was fond of people, couldn't endure the silence of a world without them. 

  


No, it was her own soul that was pulled to the sea when he was lost, drawn to the turbulence of tides, the roiling, relentless evidence of nature's supremacy. Proof that everything living was bound to die. And Spike, though he had forsaken a natural life long ago, chosen time over grace, had found his way back to that cycle in the end. Returned to the ebb and flow. Found his sweet release.

  


The ocean was an affirmation of life. And it called to her again after the shock of revelation. In a 7-11, of all places. 

  


She barely remembered the drive to the beach, certainly didn't recall coming to the water's edge, a clamor of possibilities ringing in her ears and heart, so loud and true and gloriousthat she almost fell to her knees on the damp carpet of sand, bowled over by the very idea of Spike alive in the world. It was crazy and impossible and a miracle she didn't deserve.

  


_"That voice...oh, my stars and garters..."_

  


Indeed. It lived in her memory, his gorgeous whisky purr. Whispering nasty, murmuring sweet, sometimes mocking or melancholy with soul.Not brooding but yearning. Spike, on his way to something higher.

  


_"Good bones..."_

  


Yes, good. Strong. Not easily broken, except by an enraged hell goddess or Buffy's own fists. She would never again walk through an alley without remembering Katrina's death, Spike's fierce stand, her own rage keening like blood cry. How brutally she beat him down! 

How easily he forgave.

  


The beach, deserted in late afternoon, stretched north and south to the horizon, a natural stage for the baroque dance of shadows that Angel called a gloaming, and only a far-off fishing boat and wheeling seagulls observed the two women standing on the shore, wind-whipped and hair astir. One fairy-gold, the other dark and lush. One leaning in to listen, the other crying a little as her tale tumbled out, fantastic and unlikely and just too good to be true. 

Faith said nothing, even after the last tremulous note of story echoed away into the rocks. Buffy began to wonder if she was going to talk at all. Eventually, Faith spoke, her voice too soft, like a stranger's.

"Don't you think you're assuming an awful lot, B.?" 

Buffy didn't reply. Faith tried another angle. "I mean, c'mon. Spike _paying _for smokes? What's next? Angel bikini waxing? Drusilla the Avon lady?" 

The attempt at humor fell flat. Buffy's chin trembled and Faith sighed. "Just tell me you don't have your heart set on this. It could be a trick. A spell. Revenge, maybe. Willow, mucking around on the astral plane."

Buffy wrapped her arms around herself, feeble protection against both cold chills and Faith's argument for caution. For Buffy, it was almost too late for doubt. Something long dormant was unfurling within her, a tickling hope that was fast blooming into stubborn certainty. " I'm not crazy, Faith. And it can't be anybody else. What about the coat? The scar?" To her own ears she sounded desperate, almost pleading. Terribly young and very, very lost.

Faith shrugged. "I dunno. Coincidence." She bent into the teeth of the wind to light a cigarette, cupping a palm around the brief lick of flame. A flag of ebony hair hid her expression, but she was always hard for Buffy to read, anyway. A darkling mystery, part wild-child, part penitent, growing into herself half-broken.

Buffy stared at the darker girl."Do you really believe that?" 

How could she, when they confronted mysteries every day? Most of their inner circle had passed into death at least once. And come back changed. With all their tragedies, they'd probably worn a path between the worlds of the living and the dead by Spike's time. She'd seen paradise herself, had some fading opalescent memories of her stay. In heaven, her mother's arms were always around her. Night never fell. The dead _did _remember. And there was no loss. These things she remembered with certainty. The rest was cloaked in mist.

Faith shrugged, slim shoulders twitching under black leather. Her coat was old and butter-soft. Buffy knew because she'd cried on that on that raven shoulder when Spike's loss was fresh. With a battle-worn Giles at the wheel of the bus, and everyone else deep in chaotic dreams, Faith had held her through the darkest hours, listened to her awful, hushed confessions. That first storm of grief lasted forever, subsided and began again. Faith just held on to her through it all. And somewhere on that stretch of highway, between Sunnydale and Los Angeles, a door opened and, for the two Slayers, forgiveness entered in.

When it was over, the tale of Buffy and Spike laid out, in all it's turbulent glory, Faith was quiet for a long time.

"Goddamn." she finally said. "That's a fucked up story, B."

Yes, it was. Fucked up, tragic. Occasionally transcendent. Full of grace one moment and terror the next. Never, ever easy. 

When they rolled into the city that morning, Spike was still gone. Sunnydale, in ruins. Anya dead. And Buffy gathered herself, somehow, tucked her memories away, survived as best she could. Helped Angel with his cases, put Dawn in school. Made enough money to split the rent on a small apartment with none other than Faith, who bounced from job to job until she finally landed at Caritas, where she stayed, pouring drinks and keeping the peace. 

They were a strange little family of three, Buffy, Faith and Dawn. Frequently at odds, but, as the darker Slayer remarked, happier than any of them would have been moving in with "the enormous freak show" at the Hyperion. Said freak show included, for a time, Sunnydale refugees, Slayers, broken-hearted lovers and a scholar or two. But, gradually, the mass of people thinned from a crowd to a herd, and finally dwindled down to a few souls who lingered before returning to the homes and families they thought they'd never see again, only a short time before. But even the stragglers drifted off, eventually, and, for Buffy, the silence was unbearable. Harder still was the departure of Willow when she, Giles and Kennedy took the rest of the former potentials off to England, to live and train and form the backbone of a new council. 

It was Xander, though, who surprised Buffy most of all. When the rebuilding of Sunnydale began, only weeks after its destruction, he packed up and returned to the remains of the hated old town. Didn't explain, just hugged Willow and set out for the place he was born and raised and almost married. To help bang it back together with hammer and blowtorch and heart. Buffy supposed he was finding his own way. Maybe, just maybe, building something better over the place where Anya and Tara and Jessie died. 

Fixing things, even after.

With every departure, Buffy's loneliness grew, but, at the end of the day, there was always, always Dawn, drawing off the hurt with her candy smile and tart perspective on life. A bright bauble of a girl who painted her toenails cherry-berry, translated Sumeranian and liked to draw the skyline. A mass of happy contradictions wrapped in flesh, dancing on the edge of womanhood.

Buffy couldn't remember ever being that young and free.

Faith's reply called Buffy back from her reverie, to the beach and sand, the freewheeling birds and crash of breakers. "It doesn't matter what I believe. Chasing ghosts is dangerous. Distracting. Could get you killed. Will definitely break your heart."

Buffy felt a bubble of hysteria rising in her chest. _My heart...shattered years ago_. _You should understand this._ It was true. Spike made do with shards and loved them more than any man should. _And the lecture about pain? So not effective. I lost heaven, sister. You made your own hell._

She clamped down on her retort with effort. If Spike was alive and in trouble, she would need Faith's help to mount a rescue. Asking Angel was out of the question. Giles was far away and...not an option. Xander? He and Spike had made a fragile peace, toward the end, but they weren't exactly blanket friends. 

So, it was up to her to save him. Maybe even from himself. She'd done it before, pulled him from the dank school basement, tried to untangle the web of truth and lies that bound him to the First Evil and choked his free will. Buffy closed her eyes, drew up the memory of him, in those terrible days, often feral, sometimes full of whimsy, composing sonnets in the shadows

_Scream Montressor all you like, pet. _

Buffy felt the prick of tears behind her closed lids. Was he trapped somewhere, all these long months? Screaming for her? Oh God. Her hands itched to smash, to defend, to draw him close and whisper comforting nonsense. __

_Love. Always. Forever, William. Home now._

Faith must have sensed the tension in her, the simmering violence and helpless need. "C'mon." She grasped Buffy's arm, blackberry fingernails digging into the flesh like talons. "Run with me."

Buffy resisted for a token moment, still bitter. Not at Faith, really, but at circumstance, and time wasted on frivolities–and wasn't that a Giles word–while Spike might be alive somewhere, apart from her. 

Waiting, maybe. Like before.

_He's tied to the wall, slim wrists hanging limply next to his head, fingers curling, exhausted, torn_. _But still present enough in spirit thankyougodthankyou_ _to hurl insults_. _Unbroken. It's obscene, what's been done to him, and she'd get him down but_ _the carvings in his flesh have her frozen in place, staring dumbly, beyond shocked. Ice Sculpture Buffy._ _Still Life with Vampire. Tortured, bleeding vampire, so she has to be careful, not jounce him on the way out. Be strong even when he looks at her, whispers "Thank You, Slayer," and her heart dies a little because he didn't call her love. They both know why._

He held on for her, that time. Didn't crumble, didn't break. Knew she'd come, and that incredible faith kept him alive. She hoped he still had it. Could hold on a little longer.__

The sky above was a deep cobalt, the dark blue that comes before nightfall. Darker indigo. Under them, the sand yielded just enough to hold a footprint. Buffy kept her eyes fixed on a distant point as she jogged beside Faith, their feet pounding the beach almost in rhythm. She could just hear the other Slayer over the song of the ocean.

"Why, B.?"

"Why what?" One of the perks of Slayage. Neither of them was out of breath. Wouldn't be for hours, at that gentle pace.

"Why do you want Spike back?"

Buffy's step faltered. She almost stopped. "Because...well I..." She tried again. "He's–"

Faith cut her off. " He's what? Your friend? Sure. Whatever.." Faith ran backwards for a moment so she could eye Buffy. "Whatcha plan to do with him if you find him?"

"Huh?" Buffy stammered, confused.

"Go shopping? Chat on the phone? Exchange Christmas cards_? _Set him up on dates?" Faith fired off, "And not crash them?"

Buffy lengthened her stride. "Those delusional pills are really working for you. I have no idea what you're blathering about_."_

"Will you fuck him?

Buffy stopped running and wheeled on her, outraged. "That's none of business! I know you're the pervert queen and all but that's just–"

Faith grabbed her arm. Buffy jerked it away. She was panting, by then, breathless with anger and something else, some emotion she couldn't quite put her finger on. 

They faced off, two women at an impasse on an endless stretch of beach_._

Buffy was red with anger, but Faith looked almost earnest, and adopted a tone of voice to match._ "_Friends don't fuck, Buffy. Unless they're on a long-running sitcom, that is_. _Or pretty drunk. But that's beside the point." She leaned in. "Spike wasn't your lover when he died_."_

Buffy glared at Faith for a long moment before dropping her eyes. "He wanted to be, I think," she 

whispered. " I...I _know _I did ." She lifted an agonized face to the sky_._ "There just...wasn't time."

Faith sighed. "That's bullshit, Buff. He was in the basement for half a year! You weren't holding back because of Slaying, or Angel or even the First. Her tone gentled. "Was it the bathroom fiasco?"

Buffy looked away. "No. I got over that."

Faith examined Buffy's expression carefully. "When?"

She shrugged. "I don't know." she replied truthfully. "Maybe when I found out about the soul. No, before that," she qualified. "I hurt him. He hurt me. It was hurt fest 2002." 

Faith took her by the elbows. "Do you want that again?"

"No! It was different when he came back. Better. _He _was better." She looked at Faith helplessly. "I...I fell in love." Her laugh was edged with tears. "Sue me."

Faith refused to let her squirm away, even in the face of that confession, which was, perhaps, one of the bravest she'd ever made. Certainly, it was a long time in coming. "Knowing what you want is one thing. _Letting_ yourself love him is another." Faith caressed her cheek, a bare whisper of fingers over flesh. "Say he didn't kick it. Say we find Spike and drag his pale ass home. What then?"

"What do you mean?

Faith rolled her eyes, gave Buffy's arm a little shake. "Is your vamp boy staying or going? Do we tuck him in your bed or make the sofa Spike territory? Am I gonna open a door and find you getting groiny with the undead? Will Type O always be on the goddamn grocery list? In other words, B. What do you want? Do you even know?"

"Yes," Buffy breathed."I know. But–"

"Jesus fucking Christ!" Faith clapped her on the side of the head, none to gently. "Is your schitzo catching_?_ Cause my head is spinning, big time. Are you keeping Count Gorgeous or not?"__

Buffy slapped at Faith's hand. "He's a man, not Rin Tin Tin, you know!"

Faith smile crackled with mischief. "Yeah, I know. Figured that out when I saw him on that cot, all naked." She waggled her tongue.

Buffy flushed."He was _not _naked!" Nakidity of Spike wasn't a visual that just got shuffled back into the deck. And Buffy had a complete memory of that day, when Faith returned to Sunnydale and zeroed in on the basement like a cleavegy cruise missile. Remembered mottled shadows and curls of cigarette smoke, how comfortable they looked, sprawled across his bed like partners in crime.

Faith danced away, laughing. "Was too. Half, anyway."

"Bitch!" Buffy stalked her across the sand. "Did you cop a feel?"

"Fuck, yeah." Faith snorted. "Sampled the goodies while you were busy being a tight ass." She let out a _whumphhh_ when Buffy kicked her feet out from under her. "All stiff-lipped and woe-is-me."

"Shut up!" Buffy pounced and the two of them rolled across the sand in a snarl of hair and limbs. "Spike was not naked and my ass is not tight!"

"It is!" Faith howled. "Tight ass Buffy!"

To passerby, their little skirmish might have appeared more serious than it was, probably came across as two women actively trying to kill each other, but Faith's laughter betrayed the illusion. Kneeing Buffy in the stomach, she scrambled away.

On her feet in an instant, Buffy lunged. Faith parried, and the brawl became a dance to the casual observer, a graceful flurry of femininity and violence, timeless as dirt and sky. Buffy threw herself into the medley of kicks and punches. It had been too long since she had a worthy opponent, someone who challenged her the way _he _did, flowing like quicksilver, moonlight in motion. 

Faith blocked a right-cross and spun fluidly. "You gotta move forward, B. Or let him go. That's all I'm saying."

_Never let go. My gift, my curse. _ "I get that." And she did. Now.

Up and down the beach they battled as the shadows spread, and Buffy vowed to remember this night, this moment on the cusp of the rest of her life. When a door opened and the future entered in. The past was still with her, of course, but not so much. Obstacles lay ahead, but they were not unconquerable. It was time that she loved.

Falling on the sand in exhaustion, she looked up at the shadow-figure of her friend. "I love him, Faith. I'm going to find him. Will you help me?"

Faith plopped down beside her. "Of course I will, shithead. Hot chicks with superpowers gotta stick together."

"It could get messy. Spike can be difficult."

Faith's bark of laughter, dark and rich as plums, pierced the gloom.. "Yeah. Figured that out when he went all dark avenger and punched me in the face." She flopped on her side to face Buffy. "He totally defended your honor."

Buffy allowed herself a small, satisfied smile. "He loves me."

"Yeah." Faith sounded almost wistful. "You're pretty fucking lucky. Mess it up again and I'll be forced to kick your ass."

Buffy laughed. "If I mess it up, I might even let you."

"Deal." Faith vaulted to her feet and pulled at Buffy's arm. "Come on, you lazy shit! Let's go find your vampire!" She set off running down the beach.

Jumping up, Buffy took off in pursuit, following the shadowy outline of the other Slayer's retreating back. She was nearly caught up, preparing for a flying tackle, in retaliation for the lazy shit comment, when a thought occurred to her.

_Finding Spike is all well and good, in theory._

_But where the hell do we start?_

TBC


	3. For My Sister

Title: Now and at the Hour

Author: Lily Ann

Contact: saywardluckett2000@yahoo.com

  
  


Chapter 3: For My Sister__

  
  


_I met Spike more than seven years ago, in a dark alley on the Hellmouth._ _He looked like a slice of shadow, all sharp and pale and bright. I don't remember much else about that night, couldn't tell you who I danced with or what I wore. But, Spike stands out. I remember him clapping, a_ _laughing dandy of a vampire. Stepping off the pages of history and into the floodlights of memory. It wasn't Hallmark material or anything, don't get me wrong. I could have lived without the death threat. But, that was our first contact. And it determined the way we would go. _

  


Buffy wasn't a writer, knew she didn't have the brains of Giles or Willow. Dawn got all the smart genes, made better grades than Buffy ever did. Drew pie charts that rivaled Willow's and decoded hieroglyphics while she ate her cornflakes. Everything Buffy knew about Egyptians came from a Bangles video. They wore sandals and mummified people. That was all she needed to know.

  


Unless some spanky curse floated down the Nile, it was enough.

  


But Giles wanted her to contribute to Spike's chronicle. His _new _chronicle that would, hopefully, be more accurate than the last. More than two-hundred years old? Bah. Spike was young compared to Anya and Angel. The old records were riddled with misinformation. They were also gone, burned up with Quentin Travers in the council building. Centuries of carefully documented lies, and the occasional truth, gone with one violent act. What was it Spike had said when she told him?

  


_"Stubborn, proud bastard. Probably shuffled off declaring himself master of his fate to the very end." _

  


But, for Lydia, his erstwhile biographer, he seemed to genuinely mourn, in his own fashion. 

  


"_A good type of bint_, _that Chalmers bird."_

  


High praise from Spike, who hated the council with an unrelenting passion. Almost as much as Buffy did. For Angel, the trials, and all the help they'd never offered her, except as a bargaining chip.

  


Now, here she was, years later. Writing about Spike for Giles and the new council. Reluctantly, at first, because she wasn't proud of a lot of it, didn't want to admit that she'd ever been so lost that she punished another for her pain. Punished _him_, with her fists and words and white hot contempt. 

  


And never said she was sorry in words.

  


So, she said it on paper. Filled pages and pages with the unhappy truth. Once begun, Spike's chronicle became her penance, a cry for forgiveness, offered too late in the day. Spike had wronged her and apologized with a soul, went round the world for love and come back changed. All Buffy had to offer was their tale, as unvarnished as she dared make it without crossing into porno territory. Even edited, it was shocking. A trip to the sun and back. Hot, exhilarating, and violent.

  


Dawn, sneaking up and reading over her shoulder: "Riley walked in while you were _naked? _On the_ sarcophagus_?With _Spike? _Did they, like, duel?"

  


Willow, thoughtfully: "It's kind of an un-love story."

  


She had the last years of Spike's life, from Prague to the cavern, could write that story from memory. The beginning was more difficult, had to be cajoled out of Angel, in fits and starts, when he was drunk or sentimental, which was almost never. Buffy wheedled and prompted, played on their friendship and past love, all to no avail. 

  


The story of William didn't tumble out until the night Drusilla died. 

  


She'd been drifting, it seemed, since Spike went, living in the past a lot. Even stopped eating the delivery boy. Just danced and talked to her dolls about Spike, starlight and endings. Became even loopier than before, which was a scary thought. Then, on a bright New Orleans morning, the minions found her dust on the steps of a downtown church. It was the sixth of August. Transfiguration day.

  


Angel: "She got as close as she could to God, I suppose."

  


He drank a lot that night. By morning, she knew Spike wasn't a pickpocket or a robber baron, like he'd made himself out to be. _A poet!_ It all made sense. The sensitivity and the eloquence. That volatile, vibrant nature. His doomed life. William Black was a scholar, Cambridge-educated. On his way home from a party when Dru, and fate, intervened.

  


Angel, opening another bottle: "He was a virgin, too, but not for long." 

  


What followed was...painful. A brief but vivid tale of Angelus's conquest, It was a miracle Spike survived at all.

  


Buffy excused herself, went to the bathroom. Dry-heaved for a good five minutes. By the time she came back, Angel had passed out. 

  


So, the middle of the story still remained untold, all those lost years of killing between the gypsy curse and that hallway reunion on Parent Teacher night. Buffy sought it in old books and photo albums, ransacked the Hyperion's attic for clues on a rainy Sunday. Looked for pictures, documents, receipts from the sailing ships that used to regularly cross the ocean. There was nothing. Spike left no trace on the world, no space for her to crawl into the dark corners of his past.

  


******************************************************

  


Just after the lights of Los Angeles appeared on the horizon. Buffy turned to her companion. "Why do I fall in love with killers?" 

  


Faith choked on her Diet Coke. "Huh?" Keeping one hand on the wheel, she tossed the soda can out the car window before returning her attention to Buffy. "What the hell kind of a question is that?"

  


"The kind nobody wants to answer, I guess." Buffy chewed her bottom lip. "I mean, is there something wrong with me?"

  


Faith snorted. "There sure as fuck is. You're too skinny, take six hours to do your hair, and can't even microwave a burrito without putting the fire department on alert."

  


"At least the neighbors didn't think _my _French Onion soup was an attack by the Taliban."

  


"Point," Faith conceded. 'We really should do better. Dawn thinks Kung Pao Chicken is a food group."

  


"Right. We'll cook something non-boxed." Buffy crossed her arms. "Could we get back on topic, please?"

  


'Sure. Um...what were we talking about ?"

  


"Me. Having strange relationships."

  


"Getting pelvic with lost boys, you mean."

  


'Geez, Faith! Gross, much?" Buffy eyes flashed green fire across the darkened car.

  


"You brought it up."

  


"I was hoping for a little sympathy."

  


Faith fumbled for a cigarette. "Then call Willow. What I told you at the beach stands. If you can't handle Spike, let him go."

  


She wasn't saying she couldn't handle him. God, did she want to handle him. "I love him, Faith. I want him. It's just...confusing, you know?"

  


Faith maneuvered the car toward the exit ramp. "Can't say I do. I'm not in love with a vampire. I've never had one go get a soul for me. Or lose it."

  


"Big help you are."

  


"Sorry, B. You're on your own with that one. Oh...don't get all teary!"

  


Buffy sniffed pitiably. 

  


Faith lost patience. "Poor Buffy. Two vampires have loved her in her life and made great sacrifices for her. Boo-freakin-hoo. She inspired one to the side of light and lit a fire under the other till he got a soul. Tragic and awful. Really. Vamp #2 even died for her, but only temporarily, it seems! He's back! And flirting with clerks! The other is helping the helpless, trying to earn his way to a heavenly reward so he can sit on a fucking cloud and play the harp for Buffy when the bell finally tolls." She slapped the steering wheel a little too hard. "Let's have a wake."

  


Silence reigned in the car for several minutes, made deeper by their passage from the noise and lights of the freeway onto city streets. "Thank you," Buffy finally said quietly.

  


"You're welcome." Faith pitched her cigarette out the window. "For whatever it was I just did."

  


Night had thrown a sparkling blanket over the city during their short drive from the ocean. Garish and glorious, always conscious of itself, LA teemed at night. It was, in many ways, a more dangerous place than Sunnydale. Bigger, brighter, too full of lost souls for any one person to rescue them all. That was why Buffy stayed. To have a purpose, some hand in helping the world, Freedom was a funny thing. Once you had it, there was nowhere left to go.

  


Buffy peered out into the darkened streets. "Where are we going? This is not the way to the 7-11. We agreed to try there first, remember? In case he goes back."

  


"Mmm-hmm." Faith cruised down a darkened side street. Pulling up to the curb, she cut the engine. "I thought we'd come here first. Shake the demon grapevine for information."

  


It was a good idea. In addition to having few brains and lots of hygiene issues, a lot of demons were insatiable gossips. Only...

  


"Faith, this isn't exactly a hot spot. This is–" Buffy leaned out of the car, "–a Fravolian pasta house." She pulled her head back in. "Angel doesn't even bother with this place, Unless Fred wants Frav-style meatballs. They have the best in town."

  


Faith pursed her lips."The Frav, I'll have you know, are extremely unattractive, with very short life spans. They are the natural enemy of the vampire."

  


Buffy eyed her. "You just want to hit something."

  


"Well, yeah. Some rigatoni would be nice, too." Faith grabbed Buffy's arm. "But, hey, Spike could be in there right now, a hostage of vigilantes. Subject to Frav justice without counsel." 

  


Buffy's look of horror stopped Faith in her tracks. "Or..or he could be just having a meatball," she trailed off apologetically.

  


But, Buffy was already out of the car, moving toward the brightly lit storefront.

  


'Wait!" Faith scurried out of her seat. "Buffy, are you listening to me? Wreck the kitchen last, OK? Don't hurt the meatballs!"

  


Dozens of shaggy heads turned, saucy forks halfway to their lips, when Buffy banged the door open. Aware of just how non-menacing she looked in jeans and a halter, with her hair hastily braided, she conjured up her best bellow.

  


'I'm, uh, looking for somebody. Tell me what I want to know and you can go back to your pasta!"

  


It wasn't very good, as far as bellows went.

  


Faith rolled her eyes. "I know _I'm_ scared."

  


"You can do better?"

  


"Absolutely." Faith stuck her fingers in her mouth and whistled shrilly. "Hey, all you Fravolians! We want information about a vampire and we want it NOW. A short, mouthy little guy with hair as white as that tablecloth. Fancies himself a poet." She stalked closer to the paralyzed diners. "Unless you all want your Fravolian man parts in the ravioli maker, I'd sing out right now!"

  


No one moved for the longest time. That is, until Faith took another step forward. Then, the room exploded into a flurry of overturned tables and fleeing bodies, all of them headed for the door and safety. 

  


Buffy shrieked as she was trampled under big, Fravolian feet. Faith was faring a little better, having made it behind the take-out counter, where she was wrestling down a waiter to keep him from joining the stampede. Her face, which kept popping in and out of view, was liberally smeared with some kind of red sauce.

  


The chaos finally died down when all the half-fed Frav had escaped, swarming out onto the street like a vertical wolf pack. Buffy rolled over and groaned. "Ouch," She muttered. "Just...ouch."

  


Faith crawled toward her, dragging the furry waiter by one large ear. "You okay, B.?"

  


"Oh, fine. Just stepped on and kicked and sitting in..." She rolled over slightly to look at the seat of her jeans, "Meatballs."

  


"House specialty," chirped the manager.

  


"Yeah, whatever." Buffy got to her feet. "That ravioli threat was just _brilliant_."

  


"Well, you weren't getting anywhere. And we still have," she peered at the terrified waiter's nametag, "Fredrick, here, to tell us what we want to know. So, Freddie," She pulled a noodle off his head. "Let's talk about vampires."

  


"No vampires. Meatballs." 

  


Frav demons originated from south of Palermo, Buffy remembered. Fredrick, it seemed, wasn't long off the boat.

  


Buffy dropped her head into her hands. _Great idea, Faith._

  


They left ten minutes later, with no more than they came with, except stained clothes and a tablecloth for Buffy to sit on so she wouldn't smear sauce on Faith's seats.

  


"Not even a slice of garlic bread,' Faith muttered, just before a furry body shot past her and dove into the driver's seat. The door locks immediately clicked down.

  


"Hey!" Faith pounded on the window. But, when the car pealed away, she was forced to leap back or be run over."Hey!" she yelledagain_, _seemingly unable to articulate anything else until it rounded the corner and disappeared. Then, she turned to Buffy. "Fredrick just stole my car!"__

  


_"_I can see that." Buffy suddenly felt very tired. "My cell was in there. We'd better find a pay phone."__

  


_"_But...Fredrick just stole my car!"__

They were sitting on the curb, weary, bruised, and reeking of tomatoes, when Dawn came, half an hour later, shuddering up in the four hundred-dollar beater she'd purchased with her very own money. The car was a nightmare. Dawn was immensely proud of it_._

  


"What happened to you two?"

  


Buffy ignored the question_. _"Hey, learner's permit girl. I don't see any responsible adults in that heap."

  


"Hmm. Don't know any of those." Dawn pulled Buffy to her feet. "No offense, but you look like a big Spaghetti-O_._"__

  


"Thanks," she muttered. "Can we just go home, please?"

  


"Somebody's cranky."

  


"No, somebody's been tackled, stepped on and thwarted by an immigrant demon waiter. Pardon her for not smiling."__

  


Faith pulled open the passenger door, careful not to yank too hard, lest it come off in her hand. "At least Fredrick didn't steal _your_ car."

  


Buffy leaned her head back and closed her eyes. _This isn't going well. No Spike, no clues, just an ass full of Frav meatballs. We need more help._

  


Halfway home, she spotted a grocery store. "Stop there, Dawnie."

  


"What for?"

  


Buffy was already climbing out. "I'm going to get a pie."

  


Dawn looked alarmed. "Why? What's wrong?" 

  


Faith cut in."Um, Buff? I like pastry as much as the next gal, but you're a little too...splattered...to be shopping right now."__

  


"I'm going to get a pie," Buffy repeated. She turned and walked toward the store.

  


Dawn was hot on her heels._ "_We only have pie when something's wrong. Onthe edge of apocalypse. Or a major Buffy meltdown. Tell me."

  


Buffy stopped in front of the freezer case, stared vacantly at the frosting stacks of blueberry and pumpkin and lemon meringue_. How do I choose? Which is the right one?_

  


"I'm going to get a pie," she told a woman passing by with a cart full of food and toddlers.

  


"That's nice, dear." The lady hurried on.

  


Dawn was almost hysterical with fear by that point, "Is someone dead?"__

  


"No." Buffy tore her gaze away from the desserts and laid a hand along Dawn's soft cheek. "Notanymore." She pulled open the glass door. 'Does any store in California stock the egg custard kind?"

  


"What are you talking about?" Their two bodies were wedged inside the freezer door, holding it open and blocking a good part of the aisle. People were starting to rattle their carts in complaint_._

  


"Spike, I'm talking about Spike, Dawnie."Buffy was still rooting through the pies, and wasn't even aware that she was crying until the tears froze to her skin_. _"There's no Key Lime in here!"

  


Dawn grabbed her by the shoulders_. _"Did you do a spell?"

  


"No! It's not like that. He's just...back. I don't know how or why. Not yet. But I'll find out."

  


Dawn released her and stepped back, face pale. "It..it can't be."

  


"It _is._ Hemade it somehow."

  


Dawn swallowed, looked away. "Or was brought back."

  


A twisting sensation, like baby snakes, spread through Buffy's gut. Grabbing her sister's chin, Buffy forced her head around. Looked into those wide, guilty eyes. And understood.

  


"You knew."__

  


Dawn shook her head. "No. I...suspected. There was this prophecy, you see. I ran across it in a book of African lore."__

  


There's always a prophecy, Buffy thought.

  


Dawn grabbed her by the elbow, steered her away from the freezer. "I thought I had the translation wrong. It was proto-Bantu, you see. Hard to read. All about how life's a cycle and death is, too. It's a whole big cycling thing..."

  


Dazed, Buffy let herself be led.

  


"The prophecy goes like this. After he fulfills his destiny, a souled vampire gets to Shanshu. Become human. But, first he has to survive plague and darkness. And fiends released on the world. Spike shared a house with the potentials, right? So, I figure the last one's already taken care of..."

  
  


_Spike loved my sister, called her petal, platelet, little bit, like her real name didn't do her justice_. _What little girl could resist a cute guy with cool hair and nicknames? They were fast friends, to my horror. I thought he would corrupt her, hurt her. Didn't really understand the depth of his regard for both of us until Glory came and he suffered torture in our name._ _The night I died for the second time, he promised to watch out for Dawn. That promise was kept. He went on to fight the good fight, even fell off a tower trying to save her life. Was he a hero? That's a tough question. In the end, certainly. He died for the life of the world. Full circle from the shadow boy I first met. Golden, radiant, at peace with it all. Spike, preparing to go. He was ready. I was not._

  
  


TBC

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
